The Moose
by Cookie Dust
Summary: A short mafia AU in which mob-boss Castiel and his lieutenant Sam "The Moose" Winchester interrogate the lieutenant of rival mob-boss Crowley.


**A/N:** This fic is inspired by the cover picture of Jared and Misha and a tweet made by raggedyhipster on 12 Jun 2012 mentioning that Misha looked like a mafia boss.

* * *

They called him the Moose and Fred finally realised why. He'd though it was a stupid name really, and scoffed when he first heard it. He didn't get why people were scared of someone called Moose. Sure, moose were big monster things but they were _Canadian_ and Canadians were about as scary as a box full of kittens. A box full of kittens with the word sorry on the side.

But Sam Winchester was definitely a moose. He was fucking massive and he knew how to use that size. Initially it'd just been some harmless (but admittedly intimidating) looming whilst his boss asked questions. When Fred refused to answer those questions, Winchester showed he was more moose-like than just his size – he had the strength, too.

Fred was down three teeth. He'd swallowed one. One was on the floor. He wasn't sure about the third. His vision was blurry by the time Winchester's boss stood up. For the last few hours he'd been perched on the kitchen table, his signature beige trenchcoat tossed over the back of a chair. He watched the interrogation with complete indifference. Not that Fred expected him to care. After all Fred worked for Crowley, Castiel's rival.

That was another weird name. Castiel. Who named their kid that? If it even was his real name. Castiel had no surname and all attempts to discover his real name – if he had one – had turned up zilch. Crowley had been trying ever since Castiel turned up. He hadn't been happy when Castiel had dug up his own true name within a month of taking over Azazel's crew.

"Sam."

Winchester backed off and Fred took the opportunity to spit out a mouthful of blood. It didn't help; more just replaced it. He had eight broken fingers, several burns from a kebab skewer that'd been heated on the stove, and more bruises than he'd had that night he got into a twelve-man bar fight.

Castiel moved to stand in front of him, affecting a look of sympathy as he crouched down so he was closer to eye level with Fred.

"We don't have to continue like this," he said in a soft voice. "I can make it stop."

Fred said nothing. He was no stranger to interrogation techniques. You didn't become lieutenant to the boss by spilling your guts because of a little torture. Azazel had tried beating information out of him too, and Azazel had been a lot scarier than Castiel. Azazel had been a creepy motherfucker; Castiel was just some pretty boy out of towner who wore skinny ties and a stupid trenchcoat.

Of course, Castiel had managed to seamlessly take over Azazel's business. No one was entirely sure how. Azazel's lieutenant Lilith had tried but Crowley had dealt with her quickly. Next thing anyone knew, Castiel was running all of Azazel's old businesses and Crowley was screaming at his people to figure out what the hell was going on. Meanwhile Castiel and Sam Winchester were going around making their little gang the most efficient crew in all of fucking America.

And there was something else – Azazel had spent years trying to get the Moose to work for him. Some people even said he'd been grooming Winchester since he was just a kid, but the Moose never gave in. He was too busy trying to be some goody two-shoes. Fred heard he'd even gone to college to become a lawyer. But then Castiel turned up and all of a sudden Winchester's sorting out the rest of the gang and beating up his rivals.

"Do you want me to make it stop?" Castiel asked. Fred rolled his eyes. Did this douchebag really think he was that easy to turn? "Just tell me what I want to know and we'll call it a day. I'll even send you to get patched up."

"Bite me."

Castiel cocked his head like a curious child. It was... ridiculous. He was a grown man, for crying out loud. He shouldn't have been making such stupidly childish gestures that reminded Fred uncomfortably his four year old nephew.

"Why are you making this so hard?"

There, again. He didn't say it the way Fred had heard Crowley say it. Crowley said it like he was pissed off and ready take a gun to your head. Castiel said it like he was genuinely fucking curious. It was childish, and stupid, and... and kind of unnerving.

Fred said nothing.

Castiel sighed and got to his feet, backing up until he was level with Winchester. "I am sorry about this," he said to Fred, hands on his hips and looking honestly apologetic. Maybe he was Canadian. It'd explain why he kept the Moose around. "Sam."

Fred lifted his chin and steeled himself. He was Crowley's best man. He would get through this, even if it killed him.


End file.
